


ich tu dir weh

by Anonymous



Category: Marilyn Manson (Band), Slipknot (Band)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Blood and Gore, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Domestic, Enthusiastic Consent, Established Relationship, Guro, Idiots in Love, Immortality, M/M, Stabbing, Torture, but consensual torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:09:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23607331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: John, in addition to being immortal, is an absolute disaster of a masochist. Jim learned this very abruptly shortly into their relationship after an incident with a box cutter that ended with Jim having to burn a ruined throw rug in the fire pit in the backyard.it's a gore porn fic idk what you want from me
Relationships: John 5/Jim Root
Comments: 16
Kudos: 26
Collections: Anonymous





	ich tu dir weh

**Author's Note:**

> posting anon for plausible deniability but if you know you know
> 
> i wrote this awhile ago and didn't post it because obvious reasons but i was talked into it so here it is
> 
> additional warnings: power drill torture, wound/gut fucking and also coming in it, accelerated?? healing??? i guess.
> 
> please no "i wanna slit your throat and fuck the wound" jokes in the comments i am begging you
> 
> title's a rammstein song it translates to "i hurt you" lmao
> 
> comments are moderated so play nice

John’s immortal. It doesn’t matter _why_ John’s immortal, just that he _is_ , which is why when Jim is in the middle of a Call Of Duty match and he hears his power drill turn on down the hallway, he knows John is jerking off in the bathroom again.

John, in addition to being immortal, is an absolute disaster of a masochist. Jim learned this very abruptly shortly into their relationship after an incident with a box cutter that ended with Jim having to burn a ruined throw rug in the fire pit in the backyard. Those sorts of things are confined to the bathroom now, because bleach. Jim suspects the neighbors think he and John are serial killers judging by the amount of cleaning supplies that come into the house. Or germaphobes. Which is more likely.

Jim dips out of his match and walks down the hallway, opens the bathroom door to John naked on the floor slumped against the wall, Jim’s drill in hand and half a dozen holes in his stomach oozing blood. Shreds of skin are still on the drill bit. John’s hard, and he rolls his head over, eyes turned up at Jim.

“Can you get me a knife?” John asks. Jim sighs.

“I wish you would do this shit in the shower where it’s easier to clean up,” Jim says. “But yeah. Hold on.”

Jim retrieves a kitchen knife. One of the big chef knives, but not the nice one. The drill starts up again while he’s in there, and by the time he gets back, John’s got his fucking fingers in the wounds, his eyes already glassy. Jim shuts the bathroom door behind him, as if anybody would interrupt.

“Gimme that,” Jim says, blood smearing onto his fingers as John gives him the drill. “Shit. You’re already making a goddamn mess.” He kneels on the floor between John’s legs and sets the knife behind him and grabs John by the back of a knee, pulls his legs wider apart, then brings the drill to John’s thigh. He pulls the trigger and with a whirr, the bit tears into John’s skin, sinking easily into his leg. John doesn’t respond but with a gasp and a sigh, his freed hand going to his cock, streaking it with blood.

“Want you to cut me open,” John says, already sounding fucked up. Jim wipes his hand over the hole, blood on white skin.

“I will in a minute,” Jim says. He brings the drill down again, rips another hole into John’s thigh, all the way down, leaves it in for a long moment while it runs. John arches into it, shifting in Jim’s grip, tearing the wound wider. “Shit,” Jim mumbles. Red runs down John’s leg, drips onto the white tile. 

(Jim never thought of himself as a sadist. Still doesn’t, really. It’s just that whatever John’s into, he’s into, and if this is what gets John off, then fuck it, he is gonna do it. Maybe he’s kinda into it. Watching John go all pliant and weak with blood loss. But he’s _not_ a sadist.)

“C’mon,” John whines, making a grabby hand at the knife. Jim sets the drill to the side and takes the knife, turns it over in his hand a few times to calculate which angle is better. The first of the drill holes in John’s belly are already starting to close up as his body heals itself. John’s fumbling with the front of Jim’s sweats, fingers sticky with drying blood when they get around his cock. Jim shifts in closer, catches John’s lips in a kiss, and John whimpers into Jim’s mouth as he digs the end of the knife into John’s stomach. “Yeah,” John whispers, nodding quickly, and Jim pushes in deeper, draws it across a bit, and John’s eyelids flutter at him. “Yeah. Fuck.”

“Yeah?” Jim breathes back, and John nods him on again, so Jim turns the knife over in John’s body, earning a pained cry.

“Put,” John gasps out, “put your cock in me.”

Jim is physically unable to tell John no, anyway.

Jim knees up closer, cock smearing through hot wet blood. John guides him in and Jim sinks home into John’s guts, so deep he swears he could hit John’s spine. John’s mouth falls open, red-streaked spit dripping from his bottom lip as he glances down where Jim’s buried inside him. John’s hands fist in the fabric on Jim’s thighs and drops his head against Jim’s chest as Jim fucks into him, into the wet heat of John’s body, familiar but sick and it’s not right, it’s not, but the way John moans, purrs, like he’s getting fucked in the usual hole, tells him it’s not _bad_. Eggs him on. The wet slap of Jim’s hips fucking up into John’s organs seems to echo in the bathroom. He can feel John hard against the back of his thigh.

It doesn’t take long for John’s body to start closing up again.

See, in addition to being immortal, the reason for which is not important, John also heals quickly. Supernaturally fast. For a reason which is also not important. So. The slit Jim has cut into John’s belly. Starts to close up around his dick.

“Fuck,” Jim grits out, sloppy wet hole tightening around him. John shoves his fingers in alongside Jim’s cock, as if to try to rip the hole back open again. He’s blissed out, dark eyes going red turned up at Jim, silently urging him on, blood running from his mouth. Dripping onto Jim’s shirt. John’s body won’t force him out, just gets tight, clamps down around him as he picks up the pace. John keens, in pain or otherwise.

“Come inside me,” John pants, and Jim grabs onto his shoulder to steady himself. He hilts deep, stills, pumping hot into John’s guts, moans low. When he pulls out and falls back against the cabinet, white streaks red blood, spilling from John’s stomach. Jim pants, drops his head back, closes his eyes, listens to the sound of John finishing himself off. Moans loud, cries Jim’s name. When Jim looks again, a long moment after John comes, the flat expanse of John’s belly appears unmarred again. There’s only the blood.


End file.
